But Don't Owls Eat Moths?
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: Hollis is fairly set in his ways, but Mothman has always been good a compromising, at bringing people to a middle ground. Except in this.


**Title**: But Don't Owls Eat Moths?  
**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic/ film adaption contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No infringement is intended.  
_**Fandom**: Watchmen  
**Characters**: Hollis Mason, Byron Lewis, Ursula Zandt  
**Continuity**: Set over the course of the Minutemen's rise and decline.  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for the Minutemen.  
**Summary**: Hollis is fairly set in his ways, but Mothman has always been good a compromising, at bringing people to a middle ground. Except in this.  
**Author's** **Note**: I dunno; I'm terribly conflicted. Title, strangely enough, taken from an outtake. Heh. Hard criticism, as always, greatly appreciated and encouraged. (Vague Author's Note is vague and somewhat redundant.)

--

Their points of view are wildly dissimilar, yet they get along marvelously. Perhaps it is their respective dispositions – both are somewhat forgiving men, despite their nighttime activities, and are inclined to avoid discontent and confrontation when it is an easy matter to circumvent such things. Hollis is fairly set in his ways, but Mothman has always been good at compromising, at bringing people to a middle ground.

Except in this.

"No," Hollis says, without particular anger but firm nonetheless, "No, it can't work. It would never work."

"It's perfectly legitimate. Really. Just look at what they have on paper—"

But Hollis is already wagging his head, raising his hand to forestall the argument he's already heard once tonight. "On paper. Paper is not the same as people. It just won't work. It's… it's a nice _idea_, Mothman, but…" He pauses, rubs the back of his neck through his costume and tries to reason a civil way of telling Mothman that Communism is the worst idea to ever have ventured from overseas, and that's saying quite a lot from his perspective.

Mothman's face falls slightly – he so carefully detailed out how it worked, had obviously spent a great deal of time working out his argument, but some people will never see it like he does – and his heels tap against the brickwork, feet dangling out over the city streets below, careless of the sheer drop. He squints down at the flashy signs, the happy couples darting between taxis and sighs. "It's more than a nice idea. It's a wonderful philosophy. It's about-- about unity, and stability, about the _people_. There's so many variations on the theme, you can't trust just one source if it isn't the wellspring, so to speak. If you maybe read more Marx…?" His voice raises hopefully.

"Maybe," Hollis offers, a little white lie because he really doesn't want to talk about this, not with Mothman. Even if he's the only one he really _can_ discuss it with – openly, at least – because heroes stick together, and, strangely enough, being masked adds a whole new kind of honesty to a relationship.

And it's nice, to be candid with someone, even if they don't often agree – well, they agree on what counts, on what _matters_, like justice and ideals and the American way. Mostly, at least.

Almost not thinking about it, Hollis pats Mothman fondly on the back, between the wings, smiling in the crooked, 'good ol' boy' way of his, and nods to the fire escape. "Meet you on third in an hour?"

Mothman smiles back, just a bit, and it never occurs to Hollis to wonder why his hand stays on his shoulder just a little longer than strictly necessary—

"Yeah, sure," Mothman says, maybe blurts, breaking the moment.

Hollis takes back his hand, already turning to head for the stairs, and jauntily waves. "See you then."

"See you."

He goes down the fire escape two at a time, thinking about designing a jacket and some thicker pants. The cold is starting to get to him.

--

Most people likely wouldn't think much of him, if they passed him on the street. But Hollis knows where and how to hit, and how to ration his energy, and that is what makes him a force to be reckoned with. He doesn't have the raw power of Hooded Justice, or the Comedian's dockside tricks, but he can hold his own in a fight, when it comes down to it.

This doesn't mean he's invulnerable.

He rests his back against the wall, hand pressed firmly over the long wound on his thigh. The knife had been clumsy, an amateur's strike made with poor judgment, but it aches enough to make the walk back longer than it has any right to be. He should have seen it coming, in the flailing desperation of the man's fists when he first happened upon him, in the reek of cheap booze and dim prospects.

But he hadn't, and now he's paying for his sloppiness. He shoves away from the wall again, and continues on his way, keeping out of the way, out of the lights, because he knows what happens when you show weakness – it's bad enough when he's wearing a badge, it's worse when he's wearing a mask.

"Hey! Hey, H— Nite Owl!" And Mothman is suddenly stumbling as he lands, jogs lightly to dispel his momentum and come to Hollis's side. "I thought I saw— oh my, what happened?" Without asking permission or hesitating in the slightest, he slips up under Hollis's arm, taking his weight onto his thin shoulders. "Here, let me…"

Hollis leans on him gratefully, hopping as best he can to keep up. Mothman clicks his tongue occasionally, admonishingly, but his stride doesn't waver, and his arm is warm and supportive across Hollis's shoulders all the way back.

At the entrance, Hollis stops, catches his arm on the doorjamb, inches from comfort but wanting to say this now. "Thanks Byron. Really. I don't know if I could've made it by myself."

"No, no, it's fine." Byron pauses half a beat, "You should dress more sensibly, like me," he gestures at himself, wings fluttering, and grins with self-depreciating humor.

And Hollis laughs, quick and loud, as was his wont, and promises to take Byron's words under advisement.

--

"—next I know, Moloch is six feet in the air and hanging by the edges of his fingers, screaming like a loon for me to get him down." Hollis chuckled, setting both elbows on the table despite the twinge of guilt at his manners. Across the table, Byron grins, running the tip of his finger around the lip of his latest bottle. His usual sense of misplaced nervousness has fled more with every drink, and now he sprawls back in his chair, one arm slung over the back, feet splayed out to either side. Beside him, Dollar Bill is quietly snoring, his head resting on his forearm and beer still clutched resolutely in one loose fist.

"Oh, my," Byron says, politely, and takes another drink, with the ease of a long-time bar hopper. "I take it you got him down again?"

Hollis shrugs. "No, no, I left him there. He would have been fine; wasn't a long drop, sprained ankle at worst. He doesn't have a head for heights, I think. I waited until the police showed up, took him downtown."

"Ah," Byron says, tilting his bottle one way, then the other. "Well, _I _like heights. I think I have a head for them."

"Sure, sure," Hollis says, and they lapse into companionable silence, just two regular joes in a huge base dressed up like an owl and a moth, respectively, to fight crime.

It's just perfect.

--

"Oh my God," Byron keeps saying, quietly, over and over like he can't quite bring himself to voice any other opinion, must confront it indirectly. He's sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees and hands over his mouth, moth wings shaking.

Hollis shakes his head slowly, mouth drawn and grim, leaning up against his locker. "It's disgusting. I shook that man's hand, I called him a friend." He grimaces, rubs his face with one hand. "How could he. How _could_ he, to one of us, one of our own?"

"My God."

"I'm glad he's out. God, I can't even think about—" Nothing will be done about it. Sally won't be pressing charges and Eddie already took off, and he just really wants to yell at something, to drag everyone down to the station and throw the so-called Comedian in a cell himself. But it's not really in his nature to be like this, and he knows it, so he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Byron quakes again; Hollis can hear his wings rustling, brushing against the bench. Has the irrational urge to sit next to him, pat him on the back again, let him shake it out. But it's a passing thought, a fleeting thing, and he opens his eyes again, calming himself. It's fresh news. He hasn't had time to step back a bit. The victim is in his personal sphere of influence. He's an officer of the law. He deals with this sort of thing often enough, even if no one else seems to treat it as seriously as he does.

He can cope.

But _goddamn_, isn't this why he put the mask on in the first place? To deal with what the law couldn't – or wouldn't – confront? He feels small, and useless, and _angry_, so angry that he didn't see it coming or recognize that predator quality in Eddie's smile.

"God," Byron offers, "Oh my God."

Hollis shakes his head again, pushes off and heads for the showers. He can't talk about it right now, and Byron's no help, and he doesn't really want to admit it but he just wants to go on patrol so he can hit something and pretend it's Eddie. He strips down halfway to the linoleum; a hot shower will help him think, always does, when he feels too involved.

"… Hollis?" Byron's voice wavers slightly, echoing, and Hollis knows they are alone right now, and Byron's always been so sensitive to these sorts of things, and who would know?

He waves over his shoulder, because he doesn't quite trust himself to turn around with Byron _right there_, and that's the end of the conversation.

--

"I've always like owls, honestly. Pleasant birds." Byron waves his new book grandly, with flourish as some might say, grinning crookedly. Some large-eyed avian glares back from the cover, like it's surprised or angry or just a little too stupid to tell the difference between the two. "Pretty feathers, big eyes, they're actually quite interesting. Did you know some owls eat moths?"

Hollis shrugs, flipping back through the newspaper again. It's still early, and he can still feel last night's exhaustion pulling at him. The side room is quiet around them; it seems like people are staying here less and less often, drifting out and on their ways scarcely before they took a moment to sit down and read the papers. "I don't know much about them, really."

"Oh." Byron's face falls. "Well." He slumps, and thumbs the pages self-consciously. "I thought it was kind of funny, actually. About the moths. All things considered."

"What was that?" Hollis asks, glancing up at last from the paper.

Byron sighs. "Nothing, really." He stands, sets the book down in the center of the table like it's some sort of offering, and shrugs. "Going on patrol. See you on third?"

"Yes," Hollis says, after a moment, chewing his lip and reading back through the latest accounts of their vigilante heroism. He doesn't hear the door swing shut, but he glances at it anyways. His hand twitches, and, impulsively, he sets it on the cover, over the perpetually widened eyes.

_Some owls eat moths_.

He's not sure what to think about that.

--

The Silhouette approaches him, making her way along the edges of their group to stand beside him. She is long rather than slender, sleek rather than slim, and like no other woman he has ever known. Hollis smiles, and she puts her hand on his shoulder, giving it a comradely squeeze. Her nails slide over the slicker material of his vest, leaving creases in their wake. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks, gesturing with his club soda. The room is warm, and comfortable, and light conversation drifts around his ears like light-dazed bugs around a porch light. He thinks he should work his way into one of the small clusters, but it's pleasant enough here, just watching, an old man at the family picnic.

"Oh, yes. It is a lovely evening, yes?" Silhouette smirks more than smiles, but it's genuine, and friendly. "Come, walk with me."

He hesitates only a moment, following her to stand away from the others, before the window. The air is perceptibly cooler, here, and he is suddenly all too aware of how muggy the room is, heavy with shared breath and warm bodies. Hollis stares out the glass, out at the world, the city, and smiles to himself. He's never felt such a purpose, such a strong connection with what he did, not since he was a young rookie just taking to the streets. The city was a dark place, but they could make it better. They were making it better. People believed in things again, in God and the flag and the American dream. And that was enough to make it all worth it, even the grimy parts.

Silhouette laughs, just a little, in the bottom of her throat, and takes a slip on her unspecified drink, the almost rough scent of her perfume hanging over them both. "Is it not strange, how our dear Captain hangs on Hooded Justice's arm? They are close, for men." She tilts her head at the pair, and smiles, silently directing Hollis to take a peek.

He frowns slightly, suddenly distinctly uncomfortable. HJ and Nelly were, well, they were… there were some things you just didn't talk about, some moments you looked away from. He understood that implicitly, because they had to stick together, and, and besides, who was he to speculate? "We're all pretty close, I suppose." Hollis says dismissively, hoping to skirt around the subject, but Silhouette nods, purrs in the back of her throat, and props one angular shoulder against the window, sets her rump on the sill, one ankle crossing daintily over the other in a gesture too sure of itself to be feminine.

"Surely you have seen the way they act. You know."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mm. Yes, you American men, all red-blooded. Men's men, or so you say. It is alright. It is much the same in my own country," She waves a hand, as if indicating some universal truth. "But, perhaps, you are more amicable to the softer side of such… considerations?"

"I don't think I'm following," He really doesn't want to discuss this. He just wants to retreat, somewhere, anywhere, but everyone else is in conversation and he can't catch anyone's eye but Silhouette's, and hers are entirely too intent for his comfort.

"Here, look. Miss," her smile curves just a bit more, "Miss _Jupiter_. She is not so close to Hooded Justice? She is so far from him, here, now, among friends, yet she hangs on his arm every moment the camera flashes."

"I suppose they can take breaks from each other."

Silhouette rolls her eyes, and knocks back her drink with a coy, teasing air. "Then let me be frank. My lifestyle is not so, so _accepted_ as most others. It lends itself to softer sentiments, if you catch my meaning. Perhaps I would like to have a Sally of my own? Someone to hang my arm upon from time to time? It can be a working relationship, I require nothing more from you than your presence," she shrugs, the gesture laden with sultry suggestion, "But I am willing to compromise, if you require such things."

"I, I don't think I'm the person you're looking for," Hollis is stammering, his sensibilities curling at the prospect.

"Oh?"

He looks across the room, and Byron makes some comment and claps Dollar Bill on the arm, his eye catches Hollis's for half a moment, and suddenly Silhouette is laughing, following his gaze. She covers her mouth demurely, her eyebrows rising as her eyelids drop, and she leans in close.

"Oh, no. I suppose you are not."

He's not sure what to say to that, if he should rethink her offer or deny it all the more vehemently, and suddenly the conversation is twice as discomforting as it was a moment ago. Something foreign and fearsome looms, and he turns back to the room at large, coldness at his back, "I guess not."

She changes the subject, and the rest of the night passes amicably enough, but he leaves early that night – amid cajoles and half-sincere excuses – and forgets at least two of his goodbyes.

--

"You alright?" Byron asks, slipping his mask off with one hand and unclipping his wings. Dollar Bill is further down the row, mumbling to himself as his cape catches on the lip of his locker, tangling him for the umpteenth time that night.

"Just tired. It's been a long night," Hollis replies, pulling off his domino mask with a grimace. He applied the glue a little too liberally, and it caught on his eyelid, coming free with a painful tug and a layer of skin he would have preferred to keep.

"Ah, one of those. Well, hey, I'm going up to have a drink before heading home. Care to join me?" Byron grins, and as Dollar Bill ducks to undo his laces, Hollis can just see Nelly duck into the side room, can see the edge of Hooded Justice's cape before the door slips closed.

"Uh, no. Not tonight. I've got an early morning ahead of me."

"Oh. Okay." Byron says, slightly deflated. "Well, have a safe walk home, then."

"Sure, sure. You too." Hollis says, back in his civilian clothes and already heading for the stairs out.

"Hey, Billy boy, what are you doing tonight?" Byron asks, locker clicking shut, and Hollis is too far away to hear Dollar Bill's answer, but he's already half considering going back down when Sally brushes by, looking sour. He watches her slam through the front door, and feels rather than hears Silhouette slink up beside him.

"Goodnight, Nite Owl," She says sweetly, following Miss Jupiter out with a wink.

Hollis ducks his head, adjusts his collar, and waits a few moments before taking his own leave.

Like he said, an early morning ahead of him.

--

She has been gone for some months, exorcised from them almost without cause – with reason, but without – and he knows he's terribly conflicted. Everything in his upbringing tells him it is _wrong_, so wrong, that there was something alien inside of her, but he _knew_ her, shook her hand, watched her back from time to time just as she watched his, and he knows what they did was inexcusable. Tossing one of their own number to the wolves to spare themselves such scrutiny.

And, just a little bit, Hollis thinks it somehow comes back to him, specifically. It weighs on his mind throughout the week, and in the early hours of the morning, when he stumbles back into bed sore and sometimes bruised, he wonders if she blamed him too.

--

"Have you ever… have you ever thought about what we're—" well, he meant _you're_ but _we're_ works just as well, he supposes, "… what we're going to do after all this?"

"After all what?" Byron asks, sitting beside Hollis, adjusting the straps on his outfit, gearing it up for a late night's glide. The tip of his tongue sticks out just a little as he works, like an old cartoon character's, and it swivels from side to side whenever he fumbles.

"I'm just thinking, but, well, after all that— _that_ with the Silhouette…" He trails off meaningfully but Byron's still working diligently, so Hollis sighs and drums his fingers on his own knees. "What do we do after we stop this?"

"This?"

"Adventuring. Busting crime. We'll get up there eventually, be old men. Everybody does. We can't keep this up forever."

At this Byron finally pauses, and his hand trembles a little before he can start on the buckles again. "Oh. I, uh. I never really thought about it."

"I don't know. Just, after— Ursula," Hollis grimaces, thinks it's a little strange that he only learned the true name of the woman he had worked so long with a few weeks after her death. "After Ursula was, er, was 'found out'…"

Byron's stopped working completely, just resting his hands on his detached wing, staring at the fabric like he's never seen the like before. He rubs a line anxiously, licks his lips, glances to the door. His voice cracks on the first syllable, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Do you… do you think that it was… wrong? To send her out like that?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I liked Ursula, I liked her a lot. She was a…" He pauses to think of a suitable way to describe the newly deceased Austrian, of late one of his own fellow Minutemen. "… a _nice_ girl, for the most part. One of a kind," Hollis says thoughtfully, drumming on his knees again, uncomfortably aware of Byron staring, eyes boring into the side of his head. "But it was wrong, what she was doing. Morally wrong." His stomach flip-flops, like he's done something terrible, but he can't quite place it—

"Ah."

They lapse into silence, Byron goes back to work, and Hollis wonders why he's suddenly feels so queasy.

--

Dollar Bill is dead.

Byron is starting to slip up more, get nervous and shake almost without reason, and suddenly their evening patrols are getting shorter. Twice Hollis comes back to the base to find Byron already deep in his fourth or fifth bottle, wings still strapped to his shoulders and mask firmly tugged down.

Hollis joins him less and less often, usually trotting down to the quiet showers and getting out of his disguise alone. He is starting to feel tired all the time, even when he gets a full night's sleep, and all the excitement has gone out of it. His bruises are staying longer than they would have a year ago, and he swears he found a white hair last week.

But he still shows up every night, dutiful to the last, and sometimes the others do too.

"Is there something wrong with us? All of us?" Byron asks him, once, as he's going by, intent on warm water and a thick lather to wash away the sweat of a night spent flailing against a tide he's only just become aware of. He draws to a stop, opening his mouth to ask what Byron means but pauses half a second too long, and knows that window has passed.

Byron trembles, struggling to turn a body that just doesn't want to respond, and Hollis ignores how bleary Mothman's eyes are behind the mask. "Because I'm— because HJ and Nelly—"

"Hold on," Hollis says, because he doesn't want to discuss this with Byron, with Mothman, with anyone. "Let me get changed," he says, lightly, knowing he's running even if he hates to admit it.

Byron knows, too. He's certain of it.

"Yeah. Sure. See you on third?"

"Yeah."

By the time Hollis gets back, Byron's gone, either home or elsewhere, and he's just grateful enough to be disgusted with himself on the walk home.

--

Things are going downhill fast. Too fast to keep up. Hollis can't remember the last time he looked forward to his nighttime routine.

Sometimes it's good to give up while you're ahead. At least ahead enough to make it worth it.

All at once he decides he's staying in, keeping to himself, just to test it out. Turns on the radio, scrounges through the kitchen for a decent meal, something that is complicated enough to warrant careful examination of ingredients and instructions. Even then, he's never had much skill with cooking, and he ruins at least half of what he set out to make. He eats in peace, burned parts and all, listening to the soothing voices over the airwaves talking about things far beyond his understanding. Things about _radiation_ and _intrinsic fields_ and a man who is more than a man. He turns in early, for the first time in too long, and leaves the plate on the counter, by the sink.

It's the longest night he's ever had.

--

He would say he didn't see it coming, but he did. Between what happened with the other Minutemen, and the HUAC, and his nervous temperament, and his drinking – already a problem, God, they really should have said something – it was just a matter of time. It's one of the things that weighs on him, just enough to be uncomfortable, when he finally sits down in front of his typewriter, and wonders where the hell this all started.

--

It's years later, and Hollis is an old man now. He's had a good run, has gotten off better than most and worse than others, but he's proud of a life that – for the most part – hasn't been terribly disappointing. A young man starts writing him, an eager boy with his head in the clouds and just enough spark for Hollis to take him up. He doesn't have much to do these days – he's an old hat, now, all his tricks have been used up by time and innovation. He never married; he never met the right person, though he often found people he liked well enough. He hasn't seen much of his old friends, his fellow vigilantes, and only occasionally he wishes they all could've kept going. But the memories, he clings to those fondly, old photographs and memorabilia, and for the most part he's happy for all it gave him, even if he regrets it sometimes, when it's dark and it's just him and his thoughts.

He thinks he should go, out to that lonely place in Maine he's been so careful about avoiding any mention of. But there's always a reason to stay where he is, even when he really has nothing else to do. It's better that way. Even though it's not, but he's too set in his ways to go changing now, even if the world insists on leaving him behind.

"Listen," he says, after his third face-to-face meeting with Daniel, schematics and incomprehensible designs spread out for his inspection and input, limited as it is. "I want you to do a favor for me."

"Yeah, anything," Daniel – grinning wide and nodding enthusiastically – sits forward on his seat, mug held tightly between his palms. Full of energy, and idealism. Hollis hopes he can hold onto it.

"I want you to go down to see an old friend of mine."


End file.
